Strut
by Panny Pancake
Summary: All Victor had ever wanted was to skate on the same ice as his idol, Yuuri Katsuki, as an equal. All Yuuri wanted was to be a figure skating hermit and ignore the world. And if neither of them could have what they wanted? Well, maybe that was for the best. (Role Reversal AU)
1. Prologue

Victor was vaguely aware that Yakov was shouting at him. He probably should have been paying attention. He hadn't performed very well tonight, after all. The scolding was to be expected.

Every time he blinked, the glare of the spotlights waited for him behind the darkness of his eyelids, casting his shadow long, proud, and magnificent over Iceberg Skating Palace's rink. He felt the harsh impact of the ice, heard the crowd's cheers turn to gasps. He'd never fallen during a Triple Axel in competition. He was better than this.

Why wasn't he better than this?

"Oi, he gets it already. Lay off." _That_ voice snapped Victor back to himself, blinking blearily at the black hood that had moved to block the lower peripheral of his vision. Yuri arguing with Yakov was nothing new. But Yuri getting _protective_? Just how bad did Victor look right now that Yuri couldn't even be bothered to put up a pretense of not caring?

Yakov was quick to round on his new target, rant switching trajectories with a practiced ease that only came from years of coaching. Even as out of it as he felt, Victor caught the moments where he should have been interjecting. He knew the critique Yuri needed to improve his step sequence, could see Yuri's movements drowning out his own ( _too rushed, not enough feeling, where is the grace in your Ina Bauer, Yuri?)_. And then Victor was hitting the ice again and who was he to give advice to anyone, now of all times?

"I won gold, didn't I? Are you ever going to be happy with anything I do?"

"You're moving up to the senior division next year, Yuri. If you keep up this attitude, this will be the last gold you win."

"Are you trying to say I'm not good enough?"

"The other skaters will have more experience. If you don't care to improve yourself beyond this, then, no, you won't be."

Even so, he could say something, stop the argument before it became too much. They were making a scene and everyone was watching them now so Victor should cut in. He knew he should laugh, light and airy and just convincing enough, and chide Yakov for being too harsh after a win. Yuri would light up at his praise even as he bristled from his affections, secretly glad to have Victor as an ally. Yakov would be angry, but not so much as he would pretend. Yakov would be proud of Yuri underneath everything; he would want Victor to intervene. Yuri would expect him to. He should.

"Bathroom," was the only word that came out of his mouth. He didn't even wait to see if Yuri and Yakov had heard him, kind of hoped that they hadn't ( _selfish_ ).

He kept his head down the entire way to the bathroom, almost afraid of seeing someone he recognized before he had a chance to steady himself - to put his smile back in place so that he could face the people who expected him to break without worrying about where the cracks were. It was no surprise, then, that he didn't notice the bathroom door opening until someone bumped into his shoulder ( _the audience was so_ loud _in the rink and where had the music gone_ ) and a nervous male voice was mumbling "sorry" as the owner moved past him. Victor's eyes widened and his head snapped around, wanting verification for what his heart, thundering his chest now, had already assumed. It would be so easy to dismiss the unassuming Japanese man with the hunched posture as someone else, but Victor had had posters of that profile hanging on his wall when he was sixteen.

"Yuuri," he called out before he could think better of it. Yuuri Katsuki stopped abruptly before turning to regard Victor over his shoulder. The world around them seemed to fade, like someone had turned the volume down, and Victor couldn't help hyper focusing on the small details. Yuuri's eyes behind his glasses, just a little too wide and glassy. The raw skin at the corner of his lip like it had been bitten. The blotchy, red hue of his cheeks. _Has he been crying?_

"Um, do you need something?" Yuuri asked, no recognition in his face, and the world around them was full of motion and noise once again. Victor had just stopped a skating legend in the hallway and to say what exactly?

"Oh, a photo!" It was the only thing he could think of, but he seized on the idea, patting his jacket pockets in search of his cellphone. Victor realized with dismay that he had left his phone with Yakov, but maybe someone was nearby, Mila or Georgi, who could send it to him later if he only -

"Sorry," Yuuri said again and then he was walking away.

Victor watched his retreating back and tried very, very hard to feel nothing at all.

He was still standing there when Yuri found him, clearly still fuming from his argument with Yakov. "Are you an idiot?" he asked, snatching up Victor's sleeve in a tight fist, as if Victor might disappear again given the chance.

"Yes," Victor said and smiled because he must have been. He'd forgotten that Yuuri Katsuki never took photos with fans. How stupid.

Yuri helped Victor bypass the reporters, not even acknowledging their attempts to get their attention. Yakov was waiting for them at the door and Victor expected another lecture because public relations were important too, but he just took his place at Victor's side in silence, another buffer between Victor and the world. That was almost worse and Victor bit harshly at the inside of his cheek to keep himself from thinking about it too much.

The car ride was a blur and Victor spent most of it crowded against the passenger window, pretending to sleep. When Yakov shook his shoulder and Victor realized that the car was idling outside of his apartment building, he was so relieved that he could have kissed the man.

"Vitya," Yakov said and then nothing else. Yakov wasn't a man who was at a loss for words often and Victor knew that whatever was coming wouldn't be something he'd want to hear. Not now.

"See you at practice tomorrow," Victor said - bright, cheerful and already clambering out of the car.

Yakov sighed, but seemed to come a decision. At least he kept his peace for the time being. "Don't be late." He drove off and left Victor standing in the snow, alone for the first time in what felt like too long.

Well. That was that, then.

Victor made his way to his apartment quietly, mindful of the late hour, but when he slid the key into the lock and heard Makkachin's muffled bark from behind the door, he could only smile.

"Ma-kka-chin. Did you miss me?" His only answer was an armful of excited poodle, nearly bowling him over in the doorway. He laughed and it was real. It felt good. "Thank you for looking after the place, as always." Tomorrow, he'd buy his neighbour a bottle of wine for taking care of the feeding and walking while he was away.

He kicked off his boots and left them where they fell, enjoying a bit of spiteful pleasure when one smacked against the wall. Who was going to care if Victor Nikiforov didn't keep his apartment immaculate? No one.

He sighed gratefully as he sank to the floor, back resting against the seat of the couch. Makkachin immediately moved to assume his usual cuddling position, receiving generous ear skritches for his trouble. "I've had the _worst_ day Makkachin. I can't believe I came in sixth. Michele scored higher than I did." Makkachin panted in sympathy and Victor scratched more vigorously. "I know, right? Unbelievable."

"And _then_ , I met Yuuri Katsuki. We weren't in any of the same events so this was my first time really skating against him, I was so nervous! But I didn't even see him until after the competition and you know what I did, Makkachin? I asked him to take a selfie. A _selfie_." Victor punctuated the reveal by burying his face in Makkachin's fur and wailing dramatically. "It's so embarrassing, Makkachin, I feel like I'm going to die."

He closed his eyes and instead of spotlights all he saw was the black and blue of Yuuri Katsuki's jacket, getting further away from him. "He probably didn't even realize I was a skater," Victor said and that should have been a relief because certainly tonight hadn't been a performance that he wanted to be remembered for. His breath hitched alarmingly and no, no, no, Victor was not going to sit on the floor and weep like a child. Except that it seemed that he didn't have any say in the matter because his eyes were prickling and his fists clenched, apparently squeezing Makkachin too much because the dog wiggled in discomfort. Victor let him go, drawing his knees to his chest and hugging those instead.

 _I worked so hard_. He hadn't cried in so long. Maybe it was okay, just for tonight.

He didn't move for a long time.


	2. The Lost Months: Side A (Victor)

**A/N:** After much debate, I decided to split this chapter into two parts - partially for better pacing, partially because it grew beyond my initial expectations. The accompanying chapter with Yuuri's perspective will be along shortly.

* * *

Yakov Feltsman was not a man who was prone to dwelling on his regrets. He was an old man who'd had a long, successful career that had cost him much. He'd paid, often gladly, with his time, his health, his pride. He'd even accepted when it had cost him his marriage and continued to pay that toll every day when an empty house reminded him that when he was too old to even coach he would be left with not much at all. But there was a bone-deep satisfaction in the sacrifice; no one would ever be able to say that Yakov had not earned what he'd accomplished.

He'd been coaching longer than he'd ever been a skater by now and in many ways he was better suited for it. Yakov had trained champions and the price for those successes had been even more numerous failures. It rarely came as a surprise to him when he lost a student. The work was too stressful, the losses too devastating, the strain on their health too risky, the reasons to quit too numerous. These young people had an entire lifetime of opportunities stretching before them and the world of professional sports could be a cruel one.

Even among his current crop of proteges, talented and capable as he truly believed they were, he found cause to worry. For all his dramatics, Georgi was a very serious young man and what he cared about, he gave the whole of himself over to without exception. It was what gave him the potential to be a truly remarkable skater, but it was also a dangerous way to live. A skater's heart was such a fragile thing.

Yuri was young and brash and had outpaced his peers far too quickly. Without proper guidance, he was due for a harsh loss. Without the wake-up call of that loss, he was unlikely to accept guidance from Yakov or anyone else. It was a cruel paradox and Yakov could only hope that the boy's stubborn pride would buoy him through this challenge as well.

But when it came to Mila and Victor, at least, he'd thought he knew what he was getting into. Mila had a spiteful, competitive streak that, when aimed in the proper direction, would motivate her to grow from her losses, if only because she couldn't stand being slighted the win. While that kind of drive always carried a dangerous edge, Yakov was confident by now that he could keep it in check. Mila's respect for his authority as her coach had never been in question.

Victor had never been nearly so deferential and maybe that should have worried him more, but Victor's selective memory and tendency to only acknowledge Yakov's instructions when it suited him had never managed to leave him worse for wear. Infuriatingly, it sometimes even paid off. Out of all his students, Victor had never been afraid of a lecture. He would accept Yakov's criticisms with cheerful good grace and then open his arms for the hug he seemed to consider his due for a successful skate. And having been allowed to say his piece, Yakov would be able to admit to himself that foolish and impossible though he was, he was maybe a bit proud of Victor too.

At the other end of the rink, Victor launched himself into a Triple Lutz. The landing was clean, textbook even. Exactly how they had choreographed the program. No flourishes or "editorializing".

He should have realized something was wrong when Victor didn't reach for a hug at the kiss and cry. He should have realized a lot of things.

"Vitya," he called out, "That's enough. Take a break." For a moment, he could envision Victor leaning back to sprawl bonelessly across the boards, whining loudly about Yakov pushing him too hard. Victor almost never complained during an active practice, but could be incessant about even minor discomforts once told to leave the ice.

He blinked and the fantasy was dispelled, Victor merely frowning at him before skating to retrieve his water bottle. His posture was stiff and tight, the tense line of his shoulder screaming restlessness after being denied "just one more" run through. Victor had always reserved a seriousness for skating that he could seem to muster for little else, but this was different. Yakov never thought that he would miss the whining. Victor did so love to surprise.

The Grand Prix had ended scant weeks ago and Yakov had spent every moment since feeling that he was standing on the edge of a precipice. Was he pushing Victor too hard, not hard enough, what was the right move from here? He'd never begrudged his skaters the right to mourn a loss, but he'd always thought Victor, of all people, would be able to recover. Qualifying for the Grand Prix Finals was no small thing and Victor was not yet so old that he wouldn't have another season in him.

But maybe Yakov had wanted too much to see a bit of himself in the young man who'd made him believe that he might yet peak at an age when many would be looking to retire. Now that he'd seen Victor's vulnerability, it had become a very difficult thing to un-see. He'd missed something crucial, that much was undisputed. Victor could very easily become another cost in the sum of his career because of it. The thought was repulsive; it felt like being cheated. It was not improbable that he may yet have to come to terms with it.

If only he had pushed him to compete earlier, acclimatize to the pressure. If only he had come under Yakov's care sooner in the first place. If only his first coach had known what to do with him. If only he had started younger. If, if, if.

But Yakov was not a man who dwelt on his regrets. He much preferred to learn from his mistakes.

He could feel eyes following his slow journey around the rink. Undoubtedly there would be prying ears listening to every word of his conversation. He'd considered the benefits of privacy for delivering this particular decision, but had nixed the idea almost immediately. He wanted to leave Victor with an escape route should he need it. His students might have been shameless gossip hounds, but he felt confident that none of them would be so crass as to call Victor out if he ducked into a new conversation to save face.

Victor picked up on his intentions quickly and Yakov steeled himself against the slow spread of Victor's familiar smile. A more sentimental man might have encouraged himself with a thought along the lines of 'that's what I'm doing this for'. A more sentimental man might not have been willing to take the gambles Yakov needed to.

Yakov very rarely allowed himself to be a sentimental man.

"It's not like you to go easy on me this close to Nationals, Coach Yakov. Some people might say you're going soft in your old age."

"You and Mila are the only ones who say that," Yakov said, leaning his arms on the boards to speak more comfortably, "And only because you know I am invested in you being alive. At least until you retire."

"Retirement might come soon if my own coach is already giving up on me." Victor moaned pitifully and nuzzled his head against Yakov's shoulder. "Poor Victor Viktorovich - old and decrepit even before his twenty-third birthday. I'll have to retire in disgrace. I'll have to start wearing sweater vests and Old Spice and combing my hair over my _bald spot_."

"You say such absurd things without believing a word of them." Yakov sighed. "If we take you to that place with the blini you like for your birthday, will the night end with your clothes still on your body this time?"

Victor didn't look up, but Yakov could hear the grin in his voice. "No promises."

"I ought to pull your ears extra for every year you've aged me since the day we met."

Victor laughed and adjusted himself to lean against Yakov's shoulder more comfortably; somewhere along the line he had become used to such treatment. "I'm not done yet, Yakov. I can do so much more, I promise." Traitorous sentimentality supplied the words that Victor would never say; _I can_ be _so much more._

"I know," Yakov said and his voice was even somehow. "That's why I'm going to ask something of you that I have never asked of any other student. I trust you'll make the most of the opportunity."

Victor raised his head to look at him quizzically.

"I have no doubt that you'll establish yourself as Russia's top skater at Nationals this year. After that, take some time off."

"The skating season's not over." Victor's brow furrowed. "There's still the European Championships. And Worlds."

"Yuuri Katsuki will be at the World Championships. What will you do then?"

Victor was silent and that was an answer too.

"I want you to take some time and find what it is that makes you skate. When you have done that, come back to me and we'll try again next season." Yakov inclined his head and dropped his voice; his next words were not to be spread on social media. "I have been given the... _impression_ that Katsuki will not be returning for another season, whatever the papers might think that they know. The next time you skate in the Grand Prix, the world will be looking for where the torch gets passed. That's not so different to the romantic notions I know you had your heart set on for this year."

Something shuttered in Victor's expression and Yakov knew that he'd made a misstep somewhere. "Okay," he said, but it didn't sound like agreement. Just a word to fill the space.

Yakov was on delicate ground. He was risking so much in asking Victor to walk away; not the least of it was the chance that Victor might not come back at all. But in many ways, the next season would be a dream opportunity. He hadn't been lying about his confidence in Victor's ability to win Nationals and was sure that he would do well in the European Championships too if he let him. Georgi looked like he might have a strong final season next year too, if they could pull together the right program. Yuri would undoubtedly finish off this season by sweeping the Junior World Championship and Yakov was determined that he make a strong senior debut. Russia could claim three potential spots for men's singles in next year's Grand Prix and Yakov had already mentally slotted three of his students' names into those placements.

And with Mila establishing herself as a force to be reckoned with in ladies' singles? He had four strong candidates for next year's podium in his rink at this very moment. It was career-defining.

"I wouldn't trust just any student with so much unstructured time in the middle of a season. Remember that and listen to your coach for once."

Yakov left Victor to mull over the idea and tried very hard to be the unsentimental man who didn't dwell on his regrets. If it was just a matter having faith in Victor, that much would have been easy.

Trusting that that would be enough ranked among the most difficult things that had ever been required of him as coach.

* * *

Victor wriggled under the edge of the bed, gently pushing Makkachin away when he tried to nose at his ear. He swept his arm until the stretch of his finger encountered the curled edges of a magazine, nearly knocking it away in his haste before tugging it toward him. He sat cross-legged against the bed, magazine splayed over his lap, fingers delicately stroking over the image of a twenty year old Yuuri Katsuki in his famous Lohengrin costume.

"What do I skate for," he muttered. It had become...concerning that that particular question had proven so difficult for him to answer. Initially, he'd hoped to come up with something that would satisfy Yakov quickly so that he would be allowed to return to training before he could lose momentum. But he'd thrown out one frustrated answer after another because none of them felt honest. The thought of lying about this made something strange churn in his gut. And so he had a problem.

Yakov's prediction had come true. Victor was the number one skater in Russia and he had the medal to prove it. And he didn't even know what he was _doing_ it for.

Surprise the audience. Keep them entertained. Portray a fantasy. Transport them. Give them what they came here for. Those ideas had often been his aims when skating, but were they _why_ he skated?

Victor flipped the page and studied a candid photo of Yuuri mid-practice, a small smile on his face as he came out of a spin. The goal of skating on the same ice as his idol as an equal had been enough to sustain Victor once, but that opportunity had apparently come and gone. What had made him want that so badly anyway? What outcome had he hoped for if everything had gone right at the Finals? Had he been expecting some sort of acknowledgement?

Because Yuuri's programs had always made him feel 'things'? Because Yuuri was talented? Because his skating was beautiful? Because _Yuuri_ was beautiful?

He tipped his head back to study something he could feel a little more neutral about - like the patterns in his stucco ceiling.

 _Do I even like skating?_ He thought he did. He'd been enjoying it through the years up until now, hadn't he? Victor was self-aware enough that he knew he could be a bit much, but even he wouldn't go so far motivated solely by a celebrity crush. He would have to like it.

But then why wasn't that his answer right there?

Victor groaned loudly and thrashed his legs. This time, when Makkachin came over to drape himself across Victor's lap, crumpling the magazine even worse in the process, Victor didn't stop him. Why had Yakov asked him to do this? It was so difficult! He would have rather done a hundred burpees. A thousand burpees. A million burpees.

And if he couldn't find his answer, what should he do? Skating was expensive and hard work and he would probably do something irreparable to his body before retirement. Should he stop? Should he go 'home'?

Victor grimaced. He wasn't on bad terms with his family, not at all. His parents even still routinely sent him perfectly polite letters that talked about precisely nothing. And when Victor wrote his responses, he struggled for things to say to people he didn't feel like he really knew anymore. Hello, how are you, congratulations or condolences, all the best. No, there was probably nothing for him there either.

He tugged the magazine free as best he could without actually displacing Makkachin. He'd just have to approach this problem the way he approached all problems with his skating - start at the simplest part and work it over and over and over until there was nothing more he could do.

He spent the next half hour pouring over a magazine he'd already read cover to cover years ago when he'd been the blindly passionate teenage boy who'd begged his mother on his knees to drive him to early morning practices ( _Mama, when I am away from the ice, my heart is ripped in two -_ ). He was almost ready to call it a night, having re-read the same section of an interview for the third time without really processing it, when a knock sounded on his door. He groaned as he got up, back popping. He wasn't expecting any guests.

"My, my, Yuratchka. You're out late."

"Don't nag me. I'm already getting double scoldings from Yakov because you're not around to yell at anymore."

Victor arched an eyebrow before moving aside to let Yuri in. "And what have I done to earn the pleasure of your company?"

"Nothing, I'm hiding."

"From?"

"None of your business."

"Ah." Probably Yakov then. Victor would give Yuri ten minutes or so to settle before playing the responsible adult and tattling like a dirty rat.

Yuri flopped onto Victor's bed, snatching the magazine from the floor as he went - habitually unconcerned with whether or not he was intruding or being a nuisance. "You're still worshiping this guy?"

Victor resumed his spot seated on the floor. "Like you haven't been following the skater with your name since you were a tiny lapushka."

"I don't care about a has-been like this," Yuri said, gesturing sharply with the magazine for emphasis. "Besides, he sounds like a dick in interviews. I mean, look at this one, he's so obnoxious."

Victor could probably recite some of the lines from that interview by heart, but he was feeling indulgent so he let Yuri point out the offending section anyway.

 **Q: You're particularly well-known for your unique step sequences. What kind of training did you do to develop your technique?**

 **A: I don't think any of the training I've done has been particularly special. When I grew up in Hasetsu, there weren't a lot of other people who were interested in skating so I spent a lot of time on the rink alone. My 'style' was just developed over years of messing around. I don't have a secret to getting better, sorry.  
**

"I hate the thought of guys like him," Yuri said, glowering from where he'd curled against his bent knees, "looking down on other people who've worked hard without getting to where he is."

Victor hummed noncommittally, but his finger returned to skimming over the words. His mind was churning over an idea that, like most of his best ones, had overtaken him suddenly and flew in the face of rhyme and reason.

Victor shot off a quick text to Yakov while Yuri was distracted with trying to discourage Makkachin from joining him on the bed for a cuddle ("Makkachin lives here, Yuri, don't be mean"). The response was immediate; a promise to be at his apartment within the hour. Bingo.

Yuri and Victor spent the wait in companionable silence, each preoccupied with their own phone - Victor following a hunch and Yuri incomprehensibly muttering to himself punctuated by the occasional frantic typing. Victor tried not to be too amused when the typing abruptly stopped and he realized that Yuri was losing a battle against his own exhaustion. Makkachin, ever the opportunist, gladly seized a vacant stretch of bed to curl up for his own power nap. Victor quietly slipped into his coat and scarf; he'd meet Yakov outside after all. The night air could do him some good.

Yakov didn't even bother to shut off the ignition as he climbed out of his car, clearly expecting a quick pick up. Victor waved and smiled. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to come."

Yakov shot Victor a wary glance. "Is he not still here?"

"He is, but it'd be a shame to wake him. He's only ever cute when he's asleep." Victor shrugged. "I'd offer you the couch, but then I'd be out of luck for the night."

"His grandfather's put his back out. He's in hospital."

"I didn't realize." Victor swallowed and wrapped his arms tight around himself. "Is that what you fought about?"

"His family doesn't want him taking time off to visit this close to a competition."

"And you agreed with that assessment."

"Actually, I suggested that he leave this weekend."

"Huh."

Yakov sighed. "At least get into the car if we're going to chat. It's too cold for this."

Victor's cold-numbed hands stung from the rush of the car's heaters, even through his gloves. The night was quiet except for the idle of engine and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that it was last month and they were on their way to the Grand Prix Finals. "I've been thinking I should visit Hasetsu. It's a town in Kyushu, Japan."

Yakov's gaze turned sharp. "I know where Hasetsu is. I'd like to think you're asking for my blessing, but I know better than to hope for that from you, Vitya."

Victor chuckled. "You make it sound like I want something from you."

"Don't you?"

"Even now, there aren't a lot of places to stay in Hasetsu. Winter is their busy season; they're booked through till the spring." Hasetsu's tourism industry had benefited from a small renaissance thanks to Yuuri Katsuki's international acclaim, but it would never be first on the lips of the standard vacationer.

If anything Yakov's gaze hardened and Victor feared for a moment that he wouldn't help him. Victor would make his own way somehow, if necessary; he couldn't afford to put it off for even a few months. But still, he'd hoped -

"Given recent events, I might have connections that I can cash in. I just hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

Victor was expecting to have to find his own way from the train station, so he was surprised when a woman who was smoking outside the exit walked up to him and said: "It's Victor, right?"

"Oh, yeah! Sorry, I didn't know I was supposed to be meeting someone here." He squinted a little, trying to figure out where he might know her from, before he laughed at himself. "I'm afraid I can't recall your name, if we've met before. I'm really bad with names. Actually, faces too. And other stuff." He gestured vague and expansively, while a voice that sounded a little like Yakov and a little like Yuri continued in his head: _promises, birthdays, instructions, phone numbers, directions, flight times, do you even remember what you ate for breakfast this morning..._

The woman's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "No worries, we're total strangers. I'm Mari." She took his proffered hand in an easy shake. "I just figured someone ought to come meet you. I wasn't sure how good your Japanese would be."

"I know how to ask for the bathroom?"

"Better than Dad's English then. Mom is getting pretty good, though; she likes to be able to chat with the guests and we've been getting a lot of foreigners." She looked him up and down, leaving Victor feeling strangely scrutinized. "My brother's never invited any of his skating friends over before. Minako's going to be thrilled."

"Your brother?"

Mari raised an eyebrow. "Your memory really must be bad, if you've forgotten Yuuri's name."

Victor gaped openly for a moment. He'd known, of course, who owned Yu-topia Katsuki - had been trying not to freak out about it since the day he'd booked his flight and the whole trip had become official. How could he not, all of Yuuri's earliest interviews charmingly tended to descend into something that resembled the kind of awkward interludes reserved for paid product placement. But it was only now sinking in that he would be staying with Yuuri Katsuki's family; that Yuuri Katsuki's _sister_ had personally come to pick him up and make sure he got to the inn okay. Just what kind of favours had Yakov called in, exactly?

Victor mentally prepared himself to correct Mari's assumption that he and Yuuri were friends because he at least knew that wasn't true, but Makkachin chose that moment to get antsy and dart forward, nearly yanking Victor over with the strain on the leash. "Makkachin! I'm sorry, he's usually better behaved than this. I, ah, hope it won't be an issue that he's staying with me."

"You'll be sleeping in our storage room, it's hardly a luxury suite. I don't think it's in any danger from him." She stuck her hand out for Makkachin to sniff, smiling slightly when he licked her and then nudged her hand expectantly. She bent down to scratch Makkachin around the ears and Victor suddenly felt tension he didn't even know he'd been carrying drop off his shoulders. "Besides, I like dogs."

The walk to Yu-topia was comfortable and Victor found that he genuinely liked Mari. He almost wished he could take back the moment he'd found out who she was and that they could have spent this time as just people before his brain mentally slapped the label of "Yuuri Katsuki's sister" on her in big, bold letters. He thought of Yuuri walking away from him at the Grand Prix and wondered how he'd feel if he knew Victor had flown to Japan in the hopes of finding himself (or something close to it) and was now having a casual conversation with his sister about the hypoallergenic qualities of poodle hair. It was surreal.

Hiroko and Toshiya, as it turned out, were just as easy to like. Hiroko Katsuki was a kind and cheerful woman whose disposition screamed "mother" to some instinctive part of Victor, even though his own frame of reference for what qualified as motherly could hardly be considered comparable. His first night at the inn, she doted on him with a sense of familiarity and affection, as if he really was an old friend her son had brought home. He was a little lost in dealing with it all and leaned on natural charisma and a practiced carefree smile that seemed to require less and less effort as the evening wore on.

Her "katsudon" also easily qualified as one of the top ten meals he had ever consumed and brought him alarmingly close to actual tears. He posted like ten photos to his Instagram account from various angles, but was disappointed when the lighting and framing failed to convey the true quality of the dish.

Mari hadn't been exaggerating about her father's language skills, but he had a quick, infectious laugh and Victor often found himself grinning at jokes he just caught the gist of, even if he didn't grasp the whole picture.

The first week passed mostly uneventful. He got up in the morning and jogged with Makkachin, finding that the Katsukis' friendliness was hardly an exception in Hasetsu. He spent a lot of time soaking in the hot springs, which made him believe heaven really might be a place on Earth. He did the usual touristy thing and took photos at all the notable landmarks; he took particular care in documenting a statue topped by a bug-eyed squid that he thought would catch Yuri's interest. It had very little to do with skating at all. He wasn't sure how he felt about that or if he was any closer to finding the answer that Yakov wanted.

Some days, his jog took him past Ice Castle and he always paused across the street. It was the only skating rink he'd seen in the city. There were usually at least a few people milling about and he could never bring himself to go in. He somehow thought that he wouldn't make much progress in improving the height of his jumps while the ice was occupied with children learning how to stop. Whatever peace Yuuri had found there as a child, that time had long since passed.

He must have been more obvious in his restlessness than he'd intended because one day he woke up to Mari pounding on his door. "Victor! Mom just got a food shipment in, come help me move the boxes!"

The request caught him off guard, but he found himself trudging out of his room to do as she asked. And then one evening he saw Toshiya stop to grind his hands into the small of his back in the middle of mopping floors and couldn't help thinking of Yuri's grandfather, even though Toshiya was not yet Nikolai's age. It was out of the question that he do anything but stand up and insist on taking the mop to finish the job himself. And then another night, he was following Hiroko into the kitchen even as the thought that washing dishes would go faster with two people entered his head. It was suddenly habit to check if the walkway needed a shovel after a snowfall before he went for his morning jog and to return before delivery arrived on Wednesdays and to head back to the kitchen after dinner and to stay downstairs after the other guests retired for the night to mop up. He wasn't just another guest anymore; he had chores.

He thought he might have come to understand where Yuuri's infamous upper body strength had come from.

One afternoon, he was a little too generous with the dish soap and nearly overflowed the sink with bubbles. Impulsively, he scooped a handful and placed them on Makkachin's head, having to nearly wipe tears from his eyes in laughter. And then Makkachin inevitably shook and graciously shared his bubbles with Victor, the counter, and the floor and he was positively wheezing with it. Hiroko cleared her throat from the doorway and he froze, guilt flooding him automatically. But she only walked over and smoothed the hair on his head.

"You have two smiles, Victor. I like this one better," she said kindly. "You know where the mop is if you need it."

* * *

Calls and texts from Russia came frequently, at first.

"I'm just saying, your fan club's been really up in arms ever since you failed to participate in the European Championships. Georgi's positively jealous." Mila's voice had a teasing quality that suggested Georgi might have actually been in the room with her.

"Wow! And I here I thought Yuri's Angel's had a monopoly on the Russian skating scene."

"As many of those as we've had to fend off, I'm actually pretty sure Yuri's been starting half the arguments on his dedicated message boards himself. But you broke quite a few hearts when you dropped out this season, Victor."

"I was just taking my coach's advice for once." _Why are you telling me this?_

"I just want you to know that there are people who are rooting for you."

"I do know."

"But you still won't come home, right?"

That night, Minako came over to watch the Gala exhibition skates and he let her drink him under the table. After most of the guests had retired for the night, she even managed to convince Toshiya to join them with only a little plying and then things got _really_ interesting. Victor was sworn to secrecy about most of the events of that night, but he did post a flatteringly-hungover selfie with the caption "Kyushu is amazing!".

He still had to try not to feel too hurt when the calls stopped almost entirely after a few weeks.

* * *

By the time the Four Continents Championships were coming to close and Yuuri Katsuki had secured himself one last season participating in Worlds, the announcement of his retirement having been made official now, Victor had become increasingly troubled. He started to question whether he had really come to Hasetsu because he had thought that doing so would help him find his motivation again. The more he settled into a day to day normal life, the more he wondered if this was actually his own way of letting go.

Yuri, at least, seemed to have no such doubts and responded to Victor's well wishes for the approaching World Junior Championships with easy confidence. Though it sounded like he and Yakov were getting along as well as ever in Victor's absence.

 _yakov wants me to start taking ballet again_

 _You like ballet._

Yuri sent him a rather unimpressed-looking selfie, leg still almost casually stretched on the barre.

 _he brought in his ex wife_

Victor winced sympathetically.

 _Just don't be rude to Lilia._

 _im not an idiot_

Victor smiled a little and started to put his phone away when it surprised him by chiming once more.

 _come back soon stupid_

Victor paused, phone clutched in his lap, struck with an emotion he didn't know how to place.

He wanted Yuri to commiserate with him about the parts of training that he didn't like. He wanted Georgi to tell the story of how he'd met that ice dancer for the five hundredth time, even though he could finish Georgi's sentences by now. He wanted to stay out drinking with Mila until the sun came up and he wanted Yakov to scold them both for it.

He wanted to go home.

He thought of the Katsukis and their warm hospitality and suddenly couldn't stand to be at the inn a moment longer, nearly sick with his own ingratitude, but unable to change it.

His coat was only half on as made his way out the door, Makkachin having the good sense to stick close to his heels lest he be left behind. As soon as the fresh air hit him, Victor started running. It wasn't anything like his peaceful morning jogs; a clumsy sprint with no particular destination, only the undeniable desire to leave inconvenient thoughts and feelings somewhere behind him. It was a childish and irrational impulse, but it didn't matter. He'd probably wear himself out before he got too far. Maybe that was the point.

When he was forced to stop, bent double over his knees with his breath fogging harshly in front of him, he found himself standing across a familiar street, Ice Castle painted brilliantly by the sun low on the horizon. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps not.

He couldn't help but notice that the building was unusually deserted.

Before he could think better of it, his feet were carrying him across the street. When he approached the door, he was almost startled when it opened, half expecting it to be locked. He stood uncertainly near the front desk. He hadn't even brought his skates.

He jumped a little when a broad man stepped out from somewhere behind the rows of skates, speaking quickly in Japanese. Victor thought he might have heard the word for "sorry", but he couldn't be sure. He smiled and spread his hands apologetically.

The man frowned for a moment. "English?" he asked and Victor nodded. "Ah, alright then. As I was saying, our regular hours are over for today. If you want to skate, we'll be open for the public at eight tomorrow."

"I actually didn't mean to end up here," Victor admitted, rubbing his neck absently, "I think I just got turned around."

"Well, I'm off my shift now. I could walk you wherever you're going."

"Ah, no, that's quite alright. I'm sure I'll be fine, no need to trouble yourself."

"You sure? It's hard to ask for directions, if you don't speak the language." He crossed his arms, peering at Victor uncertainly. "I'd just have to tell my wife where I'm going; it won't take five seconds."

"Tell me what?" A woman entered the counter area from the side door, coming to stand next to the man (her husband?). She regarded Victor with open curiosity for a moment before gasping and clutching onto the man's arm. "You're Victor Nikiforov. Your short program at Skate Canada was _beautiful_."

"Oh! Thank you." Victor hadn't been expecting them to know him. He'd charmed his way into some moderate attention in Russia, but he rarely drew much recognition outside of skating events when he traveled.

"Oh, yeah. I thought you looked familiar," the man said. "Shame about the Grand Prix." He then yelped when his wife unsubtly pinched the arm she was holding.

"I'm Nishigori Yuuko. This is Takeshi." She smiled kindly at him. "Are you here because of Yuuri? We've had a few people do the whole 'skater's pilgrimage' thing."

Victor thought briefly about denying it, but in the end, was he really so different from any other fan who'd thought they could somehow get better if they tried to follow Yuuri's footsteps? Instead he said: "I've always admired him."

Takeshi snorted. "He probably wouldn't thank you for it." Victor was just trying to decide how to take that comment when Takeshi sighed and scratched at the back of his head. "Listen, I'm kind of a soft touch for underdogs and no one's reserved the rink for tonight. So if you want to skate for a bit, it's no problem." He pulled his arm from Yuuko's to lay a hand briefly on her shoulder. "I'll finish cleaning up and then take the girls home. Don't stay too late."

Yuuko leaned over the counter and her smile brightened. "What size skate do you take, Victor?"

* * *

Victor breathed deeply as he stood at the center of the ice. Yuuri Katsuki had once stood in this same spot, practicing his step sequences after closing time. This was the closest Victor might ever come to skating on the same ice as him an equal; maybe not as today's living legend, but a younger Yuuri, brimming with potential. The man who'd first set Victor's heart on fire. _What did I see in you, back then? Why was this how I wanted to meet you?_

He tried to listen for the music that had accompanied Yuuri's final free skate program in the steady silence of the rink. But, no, that wasn't right. He listened for the music he could only hear when Yuuri skated; the sweet sound of piano chords shaped in the rise of his hands and the stretch of his neck. He tried to let this music move him in turn, building to the release of the first jump combination.

He remembered the interviews at the start of the season when Yuuri's coach had spun the routine as a love letter to his fans. Victor had thought that sounded presumptuous then and it certainly rang hollow now. It wasn't that calling the routine a "love letter" was wrong precisely; there was love there, he could feel it flow through the sweep of his arm as he entered into the Salchow. It was the shallow explanation for that love that he took issue with. There was too much of it to support the publicity-friendly story that Yuuri had never corroborated.

 _I would like to feel a love like this,_ he thought and the sheer want of it was consuming. Just like it had been when he was sixteen.

By the time the music carried him out of the Ina Bauer and into the second half of the program, Victor was feeling better than he had in months. Yuuri's programs always required so much stamina, but even as his chest heaved he couldn't help feeling that the breaths came easier. Had the other skaters who journeyed to Hasetsu felt like this too? Once, the thought of being just another fanboy would have made him feel insignificant, but suddenly the idea was huge. Yuuri Katsuki's skating had touched so many people and they had seen his love and echoed it with their own devotion.

There were other people who might understand what Victor was feeling.

He reached the last combination spin with a strong momentum, the crescendo of his feelings crashing over him. _Ah, I don't want it to be over._ He didn't want to finish this routine. He didn't want Yuuri to retire.

More than anything, he didn't want to quit.

As he struggled to hold the final pose, sucking rough breaths through his aching throat, he became aware of enthusiastic clapping drowning out the silence of the rink. He'd completely forgotten that Yuuko was there.

"That was amazing, Victor! I wish Yuuri could have seen it, he would have loved it!"

Victor brought his hands over his face, overwhelmed and reaching for composure.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm intruding, aren't I? I'm sorry," she said. Victor felt the stretch of a helpless smile underneath his palms. He hadn't been skating for her, really, but he didn't mind that she had seen.

"I really like skating, Yuuko," he said, completely, relievingly honest.

"That's good, isn't it?" She sounded uncertain and he couldn't blame her; he must look like such a mess.

"Absolutely. The best."

He felt more like himself than he had in a very, very long time.


	3. The Lost Months: Side B (Yuuri)

"I'm sorry," Yuuri said and the words felt slurred and strange in the way that words sometimes do when you've said them too often.

"Yuuri, really, it's fine." Celestino's voice boomed out of his cellphone and Yuuri winced and pulled it away from his ear a little. Too loud, too much, too soon. But he had responsibilities.

"I shouldn't have just left without saying anything. I was supposed to tell them tonight." Yuuri felt frustrated by the oncoming threat of yet more tears. His eyes already hurt. His cheeks hurt from where he'd rubbed at the skin. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his stomach hurt. Everything just hurt and he was sick of it.

"Let them speculate a little longer; you know how the press loves to chew on a good rumor. We can make the announcement after Nationals, if you'd like."

"Okay," Yuuri said because agreeing was easier. "I'm still sorry."

Celestino sighed heavily. "I hope you know that I'm always proud of you, Yuuri. These have been good years we've had together." A pause and Yuuri just thought: _don't_. "I sometimes wonder if I've failed you as your coach."

Yuuri hung up without another word. It was rude and he'd have to apologize for that later as well, but for now he couldn't deal with having to be the one to comfort Celestino when he still felt so raw and scraped open. It had been a while since he'd had an episode that bad after a competition.

He looked at where his newest medal had been left almost carelessly on the hotel room's desk. That had meant something to him once, had been something he'd wanted badly enough to push and push beyond every limitation he'd thought he'd had. It should have meant something to him now. Even with his track record, winning gold in the Grand Prix at twenty-seven years old was noteworthy. He wanted to be happy about it. It was a great note to retire on.

For the past three years it had felt like he'd never been able to get through an interview without rumors of his impending retirement being brought up. And then the night that he was supposed to announce that he was leaving skating for real, everyone decided that those rumors had been "laid to rest" and wanted to know about his next season plans? What was up with that? All of his carefully rehearsed words had amounted to nothing. No matter what he'd said, somebody would have been disappointed in him. It wasn't fair.

Tomorrow, he and Celestino would be flying back to Detroit. After that, he had a week until he'd have to leave for Japan.

He grimaced as he considered his phone before tapping out a message, quick and to the point. _Blackout 2 days_

He drummed his fingers impatiently on his lap, but Celestino's reply was prompt as usual. _No problem leave the press to me. Resume training on Thursday._

There was nothing left to do but set his alarm and sleep until he had to face the world again.

* * *

Celestino greeted Yuuri cheerily enough with his customary "ciao, ciao", but otherwise said very little even after they got into the cab together. It wasn't surprising; Celestino's boisterousness had its strong points, but they wouldn't have made it nearly this far together if he hadn't learned to turn it off when Yuuri got into one of his moods. There had been a time when Yuuri had been wary of being coddled, but these days he was grateful for even the suggestion of privacy. If no one felt he should be pressured to socialize, he wasn't going to complain and ruin a good thing.

Yuuri tried to sleep for most of their flight, but it was hard to manage much real rest through nineteen hours and two layovers. By the time they touched down at Detroit Metropolitan, he was bone-weary.

He let Celestino call him a cab and confirmed that he'd be ready to meet up at the rink on Thursday. And then that was it. His obligations were over and he had two days to remember how to be just Katsuki Yuuri again.

As soon as he was back in his apartment he shut his phone off and threw it in a drawer. Then he powered up his computer just long enough to activate his Leech Block set before collapsing into bed.

Despite his exhaustion, his mind was working at a million miles a minute. He'd already set the terms for ending the lease on the apartment after this skating season, but where would he go afterwards? He'd always thought he'd return to Japan when it was all over and maybe that was still his best option. He would have to house hunt though. He hated house hunting.

Maybe he could stay in Hasetsu, just for a little bit? Until he figured out where he was going for the long term? His mom wouldn't mind, he was sure. Not if it was only for a few weeks, at any rate. He wouldn't dare think of imposing on them with a long term request; not if he wasn't willing to commit to helping with the inn for real. He'd already asked so much from his family in order to chase selfish dreams.

He couldn't ask for more just because he'd come to the realization that at twenty-seven years old, he had no idea what he wanted to do with his life.

He glanced at the drawer with his cellphone and tried to resist the urge to double check that it really would be okay to come home for a bit. He burrowed tighter into his blankets, hiding from the temptation to break his own rules already.

He was so tired.

 _I don't want to do this anymore,_ he thought, not for the first time. What "this" was, he wasn't sure. Nothing. Everything. If it had just been skating things would have been so simple; he was already leaving that behind, but even after all these years the skating itself was the one part he truly didn't hate.

Yuuri spent two days mostly puttering around his small apartment, doing nothing in particular. When he went out for a jog, it was only because he wanted to; not for training or to stave off the constant threat of weight gain, but because he had nowhere to be and he wanted fresh air. It was nice.

By the end of it, he was actually craving human interaction again and that was nice too.

He finally let himself turn on his phone early Thursday morning and wasn't surprised when it vibrated in his hand, trying to bring his attention to more messages than he'd probably actually read. More than half of them were from Phichit and that was also unsurprising; either Celestino had forgotten to tell him that Yuuri wouldn't be answering his phone again or Phichit hadn't cared. He scrolled through an almost absurd number of selfies and little comments about things that had happened. He smiled to himself as he tried to skim for the important parts.

 _almost got arthur potty trained mb :hamster:  
_

 _hams & roomie are almost friends this'll help_

 _have u ever gone to the pizza place on russell? smells so good let's do lunch tmw! :yum:_ (Celestino would ream them both out for it if he knew, but Yuuri _did_ just win a major competition...)

 _practice is boring w/o u :(  
_

 _don't tell ciao ciao I said that btw!_

 _did u really blow off victor nikiforov? :O  
_

 _[joe-smit/japans-living-legend-a]_

Yuuri froze, finger hovering uncertainly over the link. He knew that name, didn't he? He at least knew he should know that name.

 **Japan's Living Legend Dismisses Competition at Grand Prix Final**

Yuuri felt the familiar weight of dread settle into his stomach even before he scrolled down to look at the accompanying picture. "Oh no." He should have recognized that name. He did recognize that face. He definitely recognized that hallway.

Yuuri pressed his hands over his face, glasses digging into his cheeks. "No no no no no."

And then, quietly but with feeling: " _Shit_."

* * *

Yuuri wasn't surprised when Celestino called an early lunch; he'd stepped out of his Salchow four times already and he knew that his coach wouldn't have expected him to be wound so tightly after taking time off. He felt bad for making Celestino worry, but he felt worse for the questioning looks Phichit kept shooting him when he should have been concerned with his own routine. He didn't even make it out of the locker room before he was cornered, flinching guiltily as Phichit plonked down on the bench next to him before handing him a vending machine sandwich: the poor man's substitute for their promised pizza lunch.

"Okay. Spill." Miserably, Yuuri handed Phichit his phone, still open on the article. Phichit made a concerned noise through a hunk of sandwich. "I wasn't trying to upset you, Yuuri."

"I know that!" Yuuri's voice came out harsher than he wanted, but Phichit just smiled in wordless acknowledgement before handing his phone back.

"It didn't sound like you, so I was just wondering if we, like, hate him or something."

"No, _we_ don't hate him. I don't even really know him." Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about _unusually poor performance_ or _adding insult to injury_ or _a clear message: if you don't bring your A game, Katsuki doesn't have time for you_. The article hadn't been kind and not just to him. "He probably hates _me._ "

"That's not true. You're Yuuri Katsuki."

"Don't say it like that. That's _worse_." Yuuri swatted half-heartedly at Phichit and only got laughed at for his trouble.

"It's probably true, though. Even Michele Crispino is almost polite to you when Sara isn't directly in the vicinity." Phichit pointed a confident finger daringly close to Yuuri's glare. "Bet you ten bucks I can guess what he was asking you about."

"You don't need to guess." Yuuri rubbed his hands over his thighs, breaking eye contact. "I should have just taken the stupid photo." There had been nothing he'd felt like doing less at the time, but if it would have avoided all this trouble, Yuuri would have willingly bore it and smiled for the camera one more time. He was a pro at it by now, after all.

"You still could, you know. Bad night or no, Victor Nikiforov is one of the top six skaters in the world right now - no way he doesn't make Worlds. Take a selfie with him, maybe the press'll run a nice story, maybe they won't, but either way things are squared away between you and him." Phichit spread his hands as if it really was that easy, apparently unfazed by Yuuri's open incredulity. "Or don't - Victor probably knows as well as we do that things get twisted. I can almost guarantee that he's not half as worried about it as you think."

"Yeah," Yuuri said uncertainly.

"Or I could just tweet him for you." To Yuuri's horror, Phichit actually pulled out his phone and Yuuri had to wrestle him to make sure that he _didn't_ because _god no, Phichit-kun, I'll look like such a freak_.

At the end of it all, Yuuri was left "triumphant", straddling Phichit's torso in order to pin his arms to his sides with his legs. He was pretty sure he'd heard the camera go off at one point during the scuffle and fully expected something incriminating to show up on Instagram later because Phichit _knew_ he wouldn't go so far as to actually search through his phone. Cheater. He glared down at him blearily (and, god, did he hope his glasses had ended up somewhere safe, _you're almost thirty, Katsuki_ ). "I hate you."

Phichit's grin was unapologetic and blinding. "No, you don't."

"No, I don't," he agreed before climbing off. "Sorry. I've been stuck in my own head a lot lately."

"It's a very nice head." Phichit accepted his hand up without hesitation. "But the rink's lonelier without you."

Yuuri tried to focus for the rest of practice. It wasn't fair to let his problems dominate Phichit's attention. His own career might have been ending, but Phichit's was just beginning and this practice time _mattered_ to him. So Yuuri would just have to be okay. He always was.

It was easier than it could have been. Worry still buzzed uncomfortably under his skin, but it was less. Somewhere between wrestling on the bench and poking around the locker room floor for his lost glasses, it had become easier to slide to the periphery. It was usually like that after Phichit got involved. It was what Yuuri was going to regret giving up the most when he left.

When they were both finished for the day, Yuuri actually felt like he could be calm enough to politely ask Celestino about the story. He only quailed a little under the patented why-do-you-insist-on-reading-this-trash Look he was graced with.

"I was aware of it." Celestino sighed and scratched his chin. "Yakov has been quiet about the whole mess, so I've been following his lead. But if you'd like to make a statement, we can."

"No, that's okay. Thank you." Yuuri didn't want to be the one to dredge things up if everyone else had moved on already. Maybe Phichit was right. Maybe Victor didn't care even if he thought what the article had said was true. Why did Yuuri think his opinion of someone would be that important?

But still, if the press asked him about it, he'd apologize. Definitely.

* * *

He wasn't asked.

Nationals came and went in a blur and left him to politely field questions about his future plans with vague non-answers and a new gold medal around his neck. Celestino was already planning a press conference for the announcement; Yuuri would just have to hold out until then.

He thought he'd finally managed to slip away when he was frozen by a startlingly familiar yell: "Yuu-ri!"

He dared a glance behind him and somehow wasn't surprised to see Okukawa Minako at all. "I thought that was you! I can't believe Celestino lets you skulk around with that terrible posture, you'll ruin your back."

"M-Minako-sensei." Yuuri's eyes slid to where a reporter's head had perked dangerously. "What are you doing here? Did you come all this way to watch Nationals?"

"I came all this way to watch my _student_ compete in Nationals. Even though he never writes or calls or visits or introduces me to his skating friends."

"There's no one to introduce you to!" Yuuri winced at the volume of his own voice. The perked head had become a twisted neck that was transitioning into an angled body.

"Nonsense, you're half of Phichit Chulanont's Instagram feed. And I remember two years ago, Christophe Giacometti posted something about -"

Yuuri hooked his arm firmly through Minako's elbow, trying to subtly drag her away at a speed that was marginally faster than the reporter's determined steps. "Let's talk somewhere else."

Somewhere else turned out to be a bar. Yuuri kept his bulky winter coat on and his hat pulled low over his head, even if it made Minako stare at him oddly.

"Do you want something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thanks. I know my limits."

"Ha? Are you saying I don't?"

"I said nothing." _You definitely don't!_

Somewhere around the time Yuuri had to start carefully placing Minako's empty bottles on the floor to make room for the new ones, it occurred to him that he may have been escaping from the wrong threat. The reporters wouldn't have been able to look at him and know the right questions or realize when Yuuri was giving them the wrong answers.

"You've skated that routine way better, you know." Yuuri flinched a little. Minako had always been a painfully honest drunk. "It almost felt like you weren't taking the other skaters seriously. Did you think no one could measure up to you? The Katsuki Yuuri I knew was never that arrogant." Was that disappointment or concern? He found it uncomfortably hard to tell, but the responding shame was a familiar friend either way.

He started to apologize, but stopped himself. The words felt cheap on his tongue. He suddenly wished that he'd taken Minako up on her offer to buy him a drink - not because he particularly wanted to be drunk, but because it would have given him something else to do.

"Tell me, Yuuri, did I do the right thing?" Minako's eyes were clear despite the slurred words, searching his face for something. "Are you - are you happy?"

Yuuri swallowed down all the possible answers that could hurt either one of them and smiled. "Thank you for supporting me all these years, Minako-sensei." Minako had believed in him enough to use all the pull she'd earned over her career to convince a coach to visit Hasetsu and take a chance on some nobody who'd never dreamed bigger than Japan. His gratitude, at least, was sincere.

It was entirely expected when Minako burst into tears and launched herself at him. He could only sigh fondly and pat her back. They were drawing alarmed stares that almost guaranteed something scandalous would be in papers again. Somehow that didn't seem to matter as much as it used to.

"Come on, Minako-sensei," he said gently, helping her up so that they could hail a cab. There was no way he was packing her off to make her own way to wherever she was staying in this state. Might as well give the rumor mill something to really talk about.

When he woke up the next morning, back stiff from a night on the floor, Minako had already been awake long enough to greet him with coffee too good to have come from the hotel lobby. They chatted about nothing in particular and the small talk was somehow more difficult than the probing conversations of the night before. He carefully didn't think about how Minako's studio had been the only safe haven he'd known for years. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd held onto the belief that Hasetsu hadn't changed in all these years and neither had he.

When Minako grabbed her bag to leave, Yuuri fidgeted uncertainly as he said goodbye. Minako shot him a distinctly unimpressed look before pulling him into a tight, unhesitating hug. "Seriously, Yuuri - call more." The familiar scolding tone made it hard to keep his eyes dry.

* * *

The gap between Nationals and Four Continents had never felt so long.

The coming weeks stretched before him, reserved for training that he knew he wouldn't be able to put his heart into. Every day, he woke up feeling tired in a way that no amount of sleep could relieve and he wondered if the rut he'd found himself in was also "arrogance".

Yuuri had thought of himself as many things, not all of them kind and some of them blatantly untrue. He'd rarely thought of himself as arrogant. Ever since his meeting with Minako, he seemed to think of little else.

Was he arrogant? Katsuki Yuuri who carried his disdain for the press in the phoniness of his smile, but always ended up reading their thoughts about him eventually. Katsuki Yuuri who always wanted to be left alone, but had the audacity to feel pity for his own loneliness. Katsuki Yuuri who hated to lose more than anything, but had grown (bored? tired? too certain?) of winning.

Katsuki Yuuri who religiously avoided watching his competitors skate because he feared how fragile his confidence might prove to be. But maybe that was arrogance too. He could keep believing in the certainty of his win as long as his opponents remained relatively faceless.

This last problem, at least, was one he could do something about.

He started with the footage from this year's All-Japan Figure Skating Championships. Most of the other skaters were younger than him (a lot younger in some cases) and less experienced. The most memorable of the bunch was Minami Kenjirou and even then the gap between his scores and Yuuri's was far too wide. It would probably be at least a few years before Japan would be hoping to claim medals at international events. But...it might be worth watching.

Yuuri had always been a fan of skating before he'd dreamed of being anything else.

A playlist of routines from the Grand Prix Finals sat tantalizingly in the recommended videos section. It was probably a bad idea. It didn't feel like much of a choice.

By the second half of Christophe Giacometti's short program, Yuuri was hiding a small, embarrassed smile behind one hand even though there was no one around to see it. The whole thing was very Chris. Or, at least, the reinvented Chris who had charmed the world after his senior debut. He couldn't fault the execution, though. And there was an air of showmanship that reminded him bizarrely of Phichit.

He thought of Chris insistently giving him his number after the first time they'd skated together in France and how it had never occurred him, until now, that he could have called it. Chris wasn't Phichit, but he'd had the social fortitude to muscle past the weight of Yuuri's title and his standoffish character to reach out to him like they were normal people who'd met at any business function. Was this his arrogance? Needless self-denial because the concept of "rival" was so large that he'd let it eclipse everything else?

He watched the confident, young Jean-Jacques Leroy while the announcers chattered about the bold challenges he'd apparently made against Yuuri's legacy. He hadn't even thought of himself as having a legacy to defend. He could barely say he'd defended now - he'd been skating against the vague idea of a competitor, without Jean-Jacques's energy or brash declarations.

He watched Cao Bin skate the last competition his old leg injury would allow him and miss the podium by a devastatingly narrow margin. He'd been skating against Cao Bin for years, but he couldn't remember exchanging more than two words with him.

Yuuri froze momentarily as the next video in the list loaded. He hit pause before the circling grey dots had even left the screen, thinking of _unusually poor performance_ and a candid shot of Victor's face in a familiar hallway. He'd find another video for his first impression.

He didn't have to search all that hard. When he wasn't staring out at him from under a headline lambasting Yuuri's lack of professional courtesy, Victor Nikiforov was apparently a charismatic smile who had burst onto the Russian skating scene like a firework.

Victor's short program had been designed to secure him a high program components score. It was a whirlwind of flirtatious steps that were less concerned with tying together his jumps and spins than feeding from their momentum. The whole thing felt strangely like an invitation to dance, woefully unanswered by the time the music cut off. Yuuri's wasn't aware of how uncomfortably the edge of his desk was digging into the arm that propped his chin up until the program had finished.

Victor's free skate felt totally different, but was no less impressive. The soft, ethereal chiming of the music almost obscured the aggressive difficulty of Victor's jump composition. Yuuri's mouth moved silently as he calculated the base value of the routine; he knew even before he started to weigh it against the tougher competitors from this season that it would be close. Whoever had been choreographing for him knew who he was up against and had intended for Victor to win.

Yuuri realized he was tapping his foot rapidly against the floor beneath him and forced himself to stop the habitual anxious gesture before someone on a lower floor complained. Victor Nikiforov wasn't a small man and he was entering his mid-twenties, but he could jump like that.

If he had been handed the same opportunities as Yuuri, he definitely wouldn't have squandered them. If Victor Nikiforov had been in Yuuri's place, he wouldn't be at the end of his career and still feel like a washout.

And that was the awful, ugly truth about Yuuri that for all the years of scrutiny, the press had somehow missed. He didn't deserve to be anybody's idol.

Only feeling slightly guilty, Yuuri quickly navigated back to the video of Victor's free skate in Sochi. If it was him, he wouldn't have liked the thought of anyone deliberately seeking out the worst performance of his career, but Yuuri suddenly couldn't stand not knowing. He had to see it for himself.

Yuuri's breath stuck sharp in his throat around the thirty second mark. He'd known what he was watching, but he'd still been somehow unprepared to see Victor go down. There was nothing in particular that stood out to Yuuri as having gone wrong; after the first flubbed jump, Victor just...failed to recover. And four minutes could feel like an awfully long time when you already knew you were done. If Victor had somehow made his way onto the ice pantsless while his year one economics professor sat on the judges' panel to remind him that he'd forgotten an important exam, he could not have reflected Yuuri's worst anxiety dreams more painfully.

Yuuri watched Victor resolutely wave to the crowd at the end. He would have liked to be the kind of person who might have been moved to root harder for Victor after seeing him fail, but all he felt was strangely unsatisfied. He didn't know what he'd been hoping for. He wished he hadn't watched it at all.

* * *

Yuuri tried to take his practices a little more seriously. He increased the length of his morning jogs and stayed as late at the rink as his focus would bear. Some days, even Celestino would grow tired, tossing him the keys with a request to lock up when he was finished and leaving him alone with his thoughts (not always his favourite company, but familiar at least). He took to filming his own practices to review on his days off even though he'd always hated watching himself.

It didn't matter what Minako had meant or if she was right or what the press or Victor Nikiforov thought of him. Yuuri had discovered something about himself that _he_ didn't like, but maybe it wasn't too late to do something about it. And he wanted to be able to look back on his last time on the ice with no regrets. That was all.

He thought that Phichit might have been working a little harder too, but it was hard to say. He was learning that he'd missed a lot of things that maybe he shouldn't have.

No, that wasn't fair. He'd willfully ignored them.

And then figure skating news found a more interesting topic than Katsuki Yuuri and it was like someone had rewound time, all of the progress he'd thought he'd been making spiraling down around him.

"He's not competing!" Yuuri rediscovered the presence of mind to be embarrassed about five seconds after he'd practically shouted the words through the door to the skating rink.

"Good morning, Yuuri. Who's not competing?" Phichit looked like he may have not been entirely awake yet, frowning at his empty latte cup like it had betrayed him. Yuuri blushed and stammered inelegantly before simply showing Phichit his phone in a moment of uncomfortable deja vu. "Wait, this is about Victor Nikiforov? Yuuri. My friend. You're _obsessed_."

"I'm not."

"You really are. And yet, my offer to indulge your obsession and tweet him for you still stands."

"Don't you _dare_." Yuuri clenched his fists and Phichit must have picked up on his distress because he finally looked more awake.

"Hey. What's going on, Yuuri?"

He could try to explain the fear that he couldn't change anything. That he'd never be able to make things right. He'd always be the man who hid in a bathroom and cried tears he hadn't earned. All of his newfound resolve was for nothing. Phichit might understand that.

He didn't know how to explain the certainty that the unsatisfied feelings he'd inherited from watching Victor skate would eat him from the inside.

Yuuri's breath hitched pathetically as he decided to use the words that had been at the forefront of his mind since finding out that Victor Nikiforov had dropped out from the competitions remaining in the season. "I ruined his life, Phichit-kun."

"Hey, Yuuri, no. You didn't."

But he must have. Victor had been Russia's rising star, but now he wasn't even going to compete because Yuuri had thought too much of himself and too little of other people. He hadn't ever even apologized, had he?

"Yuuri, Victor's dropping out because of a back injury. It has nothing to do with you. Seriously."

Yuuri's thoughts derailed. That...that couldn't be right. "The article said...he lost his motivation after the Grand Prix?"

Phichit's brow furrowed. "Not the one I read."

"But Phichit-kun, that doesn't make any _sense_. Did it say how he hurt himself?"

"Well, no." And now Phichit looked honestly troubled as well. "But that has to be it right? You don't just drop out in the middle of a season if you're not injured."

"Actually, Yuuri might be right. Whatever Victor Nikiforov's actual reasons for dropping out, this reeks of a Feltsman cover up," Celestino said, startling Yuuri badly but not seeming to notice.

Celestino gestured to his own phone, angling the screen so that Yuuri and Phichit could both see. "It doesn't matter how good the skater is, no country wants to send only their second best to an international competition. But see here? You've got these papers seeding the injury rumors, these ones are re-opening discussion about the Grand Prix Final even though there's been no new information to make it noteworthy, and this one has a photo of Victor working on a new free program taken by a 'fan'. It's purposefully set up to stave off any hard feelings by letting people choose the narrative that they like the best."

Yuuri flinched a little as Celestino clapped him amiably on the shoulder. "This is a good sign, Yuuri. Yakov wouldn't put this much effort into manipulating the press if he didn't expect the skater in question to make a triumphant return."

"Yeah," Yuuri said and fixed his million dollar press smile in place, hoping Celestino would feel reassured enough to leave him alone. Only the look Phichit shot him confirmed that it looked just as unconvincing as it felt.

* * *

Yuuri honestly thought that would be the last they talked about the issue. Celestino was generally a big fan of encouraging Yuuri's tendency to avoid the things that made him uncomfortable and not at all a fan of Yuuri's contrary habit of masochistically indulging in things that he knew would make him feel worse. When Celestino asked to speak with him in private only two days later, "Victor Nikiforov" was the last name he expected to hear.

"I don't like involving you." It was plain from Celestino's face that that had been an understatement. "But Yakov has been very insistent about his request. He sees his skater as the injured party in the scandal and some would agree. It would be in our best interests at this point for him to maintain his silence on the matter, but that is no longer guaranteed."

Yuuri swallowed hard. "W-what does he want?"

"Victor apparently would like to visit Hasetsu for an indeterminate amount of time during his 'recuperation'. Yakov recalled that your parents own a hot spring resort. He left us to infer the details."

This was at once less ominous than he had feared and worse than he had imagined. The refusal sat on the tip of his tongue, only held back by the knowledge that his parents wouldn't thank him for turning away the business.

He knew about the "skater's pilgrimage". Of course he did, how could he not. Good for the town, but horribly embarrassing. And worst of all, it made Yuuri feel like a cheat and a liar. People went looking for miracles and Yuuri just didn't have any to offer.

It wasn't how he wanted to make things up to Victor, but he didn't have the right to dictate the terms of an apology.

He felt bad, calling his mother only because he wanted something. She agreed easily. Of course she did.

"Your friends are welcome any time, Yuuri."

"Thank you. I'm sorry that I couldn't give you more notice." He didn't correct her. The truth was too strange a request to admit aloud.

"I'll have to ask Mari to help me clear out the storage room. Will he be okay in there? Only it's the busy season so -"

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Mom." He wasn't sure at all.

A fond sigh crackled through the line, making him tighten his grip on the phone. "It's good to hear your voice, Yuuri. Minako-senpai said you looked well when she saw you."

"Ah, yeah."

"You have a big competition coming up, don't you? Have you been working hard?"

"Mm."

"Do your best. We'll be cheering for you over here, of course. Your competitions are the most I've seen your father show interest in a sport that isn't soccer."

"Mm."

"Have you given any thought to what you want to do after this season?"

"Mom." A deep breath. "I want to come home."

* * *

Yuuri had been mentally preparing himself for Jean-Jacques Leroy and for the memory of the competitor Cao Bin had been and even for Phichit.

He'd been entirely unprepared for Otabek Altin.

He still won gold at Four Continents with a comfortable lead. But he hadn't known he could still be surprised.

That was arrogance, probably.

He trained harder. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

* * *

" _Yuu-chan_?" The childhood nickname slipped out before he could think better of it.

"Yuuri-kun? I'm so relieved. Takeshi wasn't sure if you still had the same number or not."

"Well, it's not like I gave it out to many people, so I never had a reason to change it." Apologies pressed against his lips, but he had no idea where to begin. _I'm sorry I didn't call more, write more, visit more. I'm sorry I've only seen the girls once since they were born. I'm sorry that even though I knew they were figure skating fans and I had every opportunity, I never got them autographs or sent them souvenirs because that's the sort of thing you're supposed to_ do _when your friends have kids. I'm sorry I haven't acted like much of a friend even though you've both always supported me. I'm sorry that -_

There was a quiet sniffle from the phone and Yuuri's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't think he'd ever seen Yuuko cry. Not ever. "Yuu-chan? Is everything alright?"

"I don't know what to do, Yuuri-kun. He's going to be so upset when he finds out."

"Who's going to be upset?" Nishigori? Had something happened between them? But why would she call Yuuri of all people about something like that - he was _terrible_ at relationships.

"Victor Nikiforov."

Yuuri's fingers slackened momentarily around the phone and he had to scramble to catch it. _Of course_ , a part of him supplied unhelpfully, _who else would this be about_. "I don't understand."

"The girls don't mean any harm, not really, but I got the feeling that it was really _private_. We took it down when we found out, but it's been up too long already - it's going to be _everywhere_."

"Yuu-chan, _what's going to be everywhere_?"

"Victor skated your routine at Ice Castle the other day. I didn't know the girls were filming it." Another sniffle. "I'm so sorry, Yuuri. I don't know what to do."

"It's okay," Yuuri said, even though it wasn't. Some part of him would always think of Yuuko as the little girl who'd been the only other child who was half as interested in figure skating as Yuuri was. "It's okay, I'll take care of it."

"Really? Yuuri-kun, _thank you_."

He had no idea how to go about fixing this.

Yuuri scrubbed his hands harshly over his face as he considered the video he'd, unsurprisingly, already found re-uploaded half a dozen times over. He hated watching himself skate. The thought of watching someone else attempt one of his routines was agonizing.

But he'd told Yuuko he'd "take care of it" like a complete idiot so he kind of had to now, didn't he?

He'd been prepared to spend the whole video embarrassed and helpless to do anything but scrutinize every difference between Victor's skate and his own.

But there was no point. It was Yuuri's routine, but he'd never skated it like _that._ He didn't think he'd ever skated anything like _that_.

It wasn't a perfect skate; Victor was clearly flagging by the second half and he couldn't quite replicate his step technique. But the unsatisfied feeling Yuuri had been carrying since he'd first watched Victor skate eased, if only slightly.

Someone who skated like that couldn't have given up on skating, right? There was no way.

Yuuri needed to...respond. Somehow. Yuuko would be expecting him to do something now.

And more importantly, he kind of wanted to? Victor had skated _his_ routine in _his_ rink and he'd done it like he was leaving his heart on the ice. If Yuuri didn't do something, there'd be someone somewhere already deciding his opinion for him. Yuuri was so sick of having his opinions misconstrued.

He could re-tweet the video. That was pretty safe and it would let Victor know that he liked it. It wasn't like he really used his Twitter for anything more than sharing Phichit's less compromising posts and occasionally talking about the things that the PR team told him he had to. He only really had it because Celestino insisted that all his skaters have a social media presence for public relations and running it himself was better than letting someone else do it.

But maybe that wasn't enough. A lot of people would be sharing the video; not all of them would have good intentions. He should say something too.

He typed and re-typed his comment over and over. Too impersonal. Too stilted. That one could mean anything; not clear enough. Too insincere. Overly emotional. Too cloying. That was way too many exclamation marks. No, that was too much like a critique. That one didn't even sound like him.

He finally settled on the one plea that had stuck in the back of his mind these past months. The one thing he'd hoped to ensure if he'd ever met Victor again.

 _Please skate again next season._

When he finally hit "Tweet", the relief made his hands tremble.

Victor Nikiforov hadn't given up skating. Yuuri hadn't ruined his life. He'd even managed to offer at least a little encouragement.

He found himself idly hoping that Victor might get placed at the NHK Trophy in the next Grand Prix series. Then he'd have an excuse to see him skate in person without the pressure of competition hanging over him.

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky was not having a good day.

Lilia had abruptly switched tracks from complaining that he wasn't flexible enough to complaining that he didn't show enough emotion when he skated, which was way harder to fix. And he couldn't even talk back to her like he talked back to Yakov. She used his full name and did this thing with her eyes and it felt bad. He hated it.

He hadn't seen much of Yakov lately, either. When Victor's little home video had hit the net, the old man had looked dangerously close to having an actual aneurysm and had spent every moment since shouting into his phone like it would do anything. Apparently he'd just forgotten that he was supposed to be helping _Yuri_ with _his_ routine. Whatever, it wasn't like they all didn't know who his favourite was.

And if Victor wanted to waste his time chasing after Yuuri Katsuki like a dog, that wasn't his problem either.

But now, Victor, the idiot, had started a group chat and added the whole Russian team. Did he forget that Yakov had an Android phone, which meant that none of them could leave the conversation? He didn't want his phone buzzing at all hours with messages from Mila and Georgi!

He'd intended to say something scathing and then shut his phone off for a while, but Victor's message stopped him dead.

What. What the hell.

He held his phone practically crushed against his ear as he listened to it ring. What time was it in Japan right now anyway?

"Hello? Yuri? Wow, are you actually calling me? I'd thought your phone's microphone might be broken since you only ever text."

"Shut up. What do you mean you're _staying in Japan_?"


End file.
